


A Minor Point

by queerlyobscure (softestpunk)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:37:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/queerlyobscure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set over the course of 3STU. Watson becomes concerned at his age and physical appearance. Holmes, naturally, notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Minor Point

Perhaps as a symptom of living with a man as odd as Holmes for so long, I could, at first, see little wrong with taking a stroll around the sports fields of the college we were staying at, with the full intention of watching young men at the very height of their physical prowess at play, enjoying themselves and displaying both their ability, and much more of their bodies than might be seen anywhere else.

Only later, when the affair that I have referred to elsewhere as that of _The Three Students_ began to gain momentum, did I start to realise quite how unseemly it was for a man my age to be taking pleasure in men their age. I felt suddenly like a complete deviant, though had little time to reflect on the problem of my own possible moral shortcomings until Holmes burst in on me as I was dressing.

It was a rare event that I actually took notice of myself in the mirror. I'd become so used to my own face and body that I barely saw them, but Holmes' presence encouraged me, as it always did, to observe more closely. Suddenly, my earlier concern over my unthinking enjoyment of young sportsmen made perfect sense; I had barely updated the mental image I had of myself since I was their age.

Now, though, when compared to much younger men, fit and agile and new, I was softening around the middle and becoming less and less able to move quickly, between injuries and the simple fact of age. I was horrified at the difference between the young man I remembered so clearly being, and the middle-aged man I was now.

Especially when, in the mirror behind me, the perfectly put-together form of Sherlock Holmes loomed over my shoulder, still as fit as though he belonged here as a student. For all of my disgust at myself, I could barely imagine what his must have been like, as observant as he was. Holmes was hardly unchanged himself; in fifteen years, he had aged considerably, but _well_. As in everything else, Holmes was graceful in his ageing, and I was not.

My lack of detail in reporting the case of _The Three Students_ could be blamed just as easily on my lack of notes as any desire to protect the guilty party or the reputation of the college, I am loathe to confess. I could make little of anything else that went on beyond that the mystery was solved, and was forced to rely later on Holmes' recount for some of the more important details.

I found, in fact, that I couldn't concentrate on anything much, including breakfast. Holmes, observant as ever, had noticed.

“Watson, I do hate to pry,” he lied. “But I've been left with the distinct impression this morning that there is something on your mind other than this case.”

“I'd just like to go home,” I lied as well.

There was a pause in which Holmes obviously decided he didn't really believe me. “Very well. I shall conclude my research as soon as possible and we will have you home before supper.” He paused. “I had thought you were enjoying your time here. A chance to relive your youth.”

Damn him for his perceptiveness. “No point in looking back, Holmes. Isn't that what you always say?”

“I'm not entirely certain that I've ever said anything of the sort. I find the past most instructive.” He stood from the table, having completely cleared his plate for once.

I remained silent, unsure what I might say in response that would do me any better than saying nothing at all. Holmes paced around behind me, putting me on edge until his hands alighted on my shoulders, so that at least I knew where he was.

“I would know you for a rugby player even if you'd never mentioned it, of course. Besides an old knee injury that pre-dates the one you blame your need for a cane on, you have the well-developed musculature in your upper body and thighs of a sporting man.”

“Used to have, you mean.” I huffed petulantly. Holmes, I thought, had caught on to my train of thought and was running with it without knowing precisely where it had ended up, or not caring.

He tutted and squeezed my shoulders gently. “Watson, you know better than to suggest that I would fail to say exactly what I mean in any but the most pressing circumstances. The foundations are still firmly in place. The façade has been through expected changes.”

“Is there a point to this discussion, Holmes?” I snapped, not wanting to hear about 'changes' from him.

“A minor one, but I feel it worth expressing,” Holmes replied. “I thought you ought to know that I do not keep a full length mirror in my bedroom to look at myself alone.”


End file.
